Page 50 of Flickerstate

Is it dangerous? Wrong?Evil?

“Want to try again?” he asks hesitantly.

I offer him my hand before he’s finished speaking. Maybe leaguing is dangerous or wrong. I guess I’ll find out. But I already know it might have saved some lives.

Vik laces his fingers through mine. Earlier, in clinic, his skin was cold with fear. It’s warm now.

“We know what we did.” His voice rumbles from his chest. “We should replicate that. Count us down?”

I whisper into the woods’ drip and rustle. “Three, two, one—”

Fire explodes in my skull.

When I can see—see anything other than the agonized pinkish throb of my own brain—muddy grass greets me. I’m lyingcheek-down. Vik, sprawled beside me, pushes up on his elbows and coughs. Fine red spray colors the grass beneath him.

“Okay?” I croak.

“Bit my cheek going down.” He climbs to his feet and offers me a hand.

I hesitate. Five seconds ago, us touching set off a bomb.

Don’t be chicken, Norah. Five seconds ago, we weretryingto set off…not a bomb, but something. I grab his hand. He levers me upright without effort. It makes me want to ask unhinged questions (How much can you bench-press? Could you bench-press me?). I cover for myself by snarking, “So that sucked.”

He wipes his bloody mouth on his sleeve. “You didn’t like it?”

I snort. My shirt used to read PROPERTY OF SAINT CATHERINE OF ALEXANDRIA’S ATHLETICS DEPARTMENT. Now, mud and grass stains cover so many letters that it announces, mysteriously, PRO CAT LET DEPART. “I was planning to do laundry tomorrow anyway.”

“Go early. Laundry room’s a mosh pit on weekends.”

I can’t keep up the banter. “What did we dowrong?”

“Wish I knew.” Frustration twists Vik’s face. “There isn’t a handbook for this.”

Then it comes to me. “Wait, isn’t there? That book,Philosophy of Navigation. You said Dr. Ortega wrote a chapter about leaguing.”

“The book has a couple chapters on leaguing. They’re theoretical, though. None of the writers have leagued.”

“But we have. Maybe we can put their theories into practice.”

Slowly, Vik nods. “How about this. We skip our weekendmorning practices and rest up. Our second try might’ve failed because we’re burned-out. I’ll reread the book tomorrow and hand it off to you at our mentor-transfer dinner—”

“I forgot we had that.”

“I would’ve too, but Mirabel sent the mentors several terrifying reminder emails. I’ll give you the book, and we’ll talk about it Monday morning. That work?”

“Yeah, um…” I shake my head. I’m not sure what to say, but I need to speak. “You know this is huge? If we can banish more beasts with less nav… Imagine if every nav department knew how to do that. It would save lives.”

Vik smiles. Not a microsecond grin this time—slow and joyful. “I know.”

***

When Vik and I emerge onto the basketball courts, sunset slants across the campus, brightening the leaded windows. The breeze ruffles my ponytail like a playful hand.

On some happy instinct, I swerve and grab a basketball from the rack. The ball smacks asphalt and leaps back to my hand like it missed me.

Dad played basketball through college. In the apartment we rented before Kev and Irene were born, he hung a mini hoop from my bedroom door. The mini ball that came with the hoop was pastel blue like an Easter egg. When Dad taught me shooting form—how to hold my elbow, flick my wrist, follow through—the ball leftblue smudges that smelled like rubber on our palms. I giggled a lot during these lessons: The ball was little, and Dad’s hands were so big. Whenever I did, Dad would wiggle his ears and dunk on me.

I shake my head. I’m not thinking about Dad right now. This is a celebration.